


Perhaps

by susiephalange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author!Reader, Bad Matchmaking, Coffee Shops, Doctor Who References, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, Loneliness, Mycroft Feels, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV reader, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Tea and Coffee Make Everything Better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: Three times in which you come across and into the life of Mycroft Holmes, and he in your own."[...] just divine like drinking a warm drink on a cold night."user@freckleslikeconstellations





	1. • i •

**Author's Note:**

> So I've noticed there are a lot of fics in the tag at the moment that have spoilers for season four, and as an Australian who has no way of watching it at the moment (to hell with the idea of signing up for an online TV subscription for actual money to see it!) I just wanted to write a fic with the good ol' Mycroft we know from S1-3 & the special episode. Anyways. I've written it all, but I'm going to post it periodically because suspense is thrilling and I won't be as cruel as the BBC is with years between posting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great British author, Ms. ________ _________, lives, quite by coincidence, beside the apartment where John and Sherlock are investigating...

Everyone knew the name of _______ _______. It was the same sort of knowledge people had about the names of other people who were mildly famous. You weren't famous like David Bowie, or Maggie Smith. More like the local celebrity, who was known everywhere, but reasonably able to hide in plain sight like the rest of the population if around those who hadn't heard of you. As the first person in your family to rise above the poverty line -- finish your education, study to become something better than a dustbin collector -- you did all you could to help your community, make sure that the kids stayed in school, the adults kept out of trouble.

Not everyone thinks themselves to be the greatest person of all time; not everyone had an ego the size of the River Thames. But when you came across a young gentleman who was investigating a criminal case beside your little apartment with his friend Sherlock Holmes, you felt more embarrassed than flattered that he pulled out a freshly printed copy of your novel to sign.

"Goodness," you pull your glove off with your teeth, and taking the pen to the page, sign it for John's niece, a little punk named Melody who ' _loved to play rough with the boys and read your book_ '. "This is a surprise. I never thought little old Mr. Finnegan was into hard drugs, let alone children into my novel," you blush.

John laughed, glancing to the dark-haired detective who was deeply investigating the exterior of the apartment door. "It's always like that, isn't it? I'm John Watson, and -,"

Your jaw felt slacken, " _The_ John Watson? I'm a fan of your blog!" you grinned, and drew a little sunshine under the inscription for Melody Watson. "I, er, actually based one of my characters after you in the novel - uh, Abraxas Colt." From his position by the doormat, Sherlock Holmes cocked his head, his sharp eyes reading your every move. "In fact, he's a mixture of the two of you - humble and wicked smart." You grin, and feeling your phone vibrate in your coat pocket, a message from your cousin to meet up with. "I'm so sorry, I'm in a terrible rush. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," you nod, and take your leave upon the staircase.

* * *

 

Not everyone knew the name of Mycroft Holmes. And he was utterly glad for that. He was like a white blood cell, cleaning up around the body of the government, changing viruses' courses, so on and so forth. If the younger Holmes was anything to go by, if anyone made the connection between Mycroft and his brother, they should assume that they were brought up well, and had intelligence bestowed upon them greater than their needs or wants, or perhaps, nature. While Sherlock went around doing it for the public, showing off to the police and petty peoples, rivalling James Moriarty, he did it for the greater good, for Queen and country. And perhaps, a lovely retirement in twenty years, and comfortable living.

Not everyone thinks themselves to be the greatest person of all time (unlike his brother), and not everyone had an ego the size of the Big Ben. No. But when it was Saturday, and his brother swung around to complain about the current case, and tracked mud into the office coming for an obscure file, he caught wind of a little author, _the_ _______ _______, who had written the character Abraxas Colt after his brother and Mr. Watson, and the world seemed to stop.

"I read the book on the loo last night, and Colt is a pain in the ass," Sherlock moaned. His brother was all for dramatics, and Mycroft only rolled his eyes. "He saves the day, all right, but there's nothing worse than a goody-goody."

He sighed. "I seem to be hearing more about Ms. _______ than the lead drug trafficker in central London," he reminds his brother, pushing the papers on his desk into perfect alignment. Outside the door, Anthea waits, and Mycroft almost can picture the little smirk on her face as the brothers Holmes squabble. "I shall give you the file, and you will be on your way. I'm a busy man, I cannot just listen to book reviews on a whim."

His brother barks a laugh, and with a _whoosh_ , his coat ascends with him, disordering his neat piles of paperwork. "Don't forget that Saturday is Mummy's birthday." And at that, he's off, and Anthea enters in his wake.

"Sir? Do you require the usual?" She asks, glancing from her Blackberry.

He shakes his head. This meeting with his brother doesn't leave him with the usual headache, and all he really wants to do is chase his ten o'clock off with a broom and take a powernap in the closet. Instead of offering this to his assistant, he wipes a hand over his face, and does his best to tidy the mess on his desk. "I think I should have a copy of Ms. _________'s novel, Anthea," he pulls out his bank card, and passing it to her, adds, "And buy a copy for yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for it being such a small chapter, the other ones should be up soon!


	2. • ii •

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...by word of mouth, Mycroft Holmes is interested in this writer, and takes it upon himself to investigate her. And, purely because ______ cannot let stones go un-turned from her curious nature, she investigates _him_ \-- the only way she knows how.

The best part about being a famous author, was perhaps that few people cared to read the last page of the book, wherein your face was nestled amongst text that read things about your life and the comings to be in print. Because of this, there was a high chance that people did not take note of your face, often so that just as they left an elevator, or you were out of gaze that they realised it was _the_ _______ ________, and had a little story to tell their friends in the office that afternoon. It was a novelty, at first, coming from a home where there had never been enough money for milk and bread bought at once. But that life had been ages and ages ago - or, at least, it felt like it. But truly, the best part about being unnoticed, also meant you could take yourself in your favourite coat to the homey coffee shop a block away from your home, and type to your heart's content.

At best, the cafe was never truly busy; there was often a lonely-heart in the corner, sipping their cappuccino, composing poetry that would never see daylight, and the milkman, who'd sweet talk the barista, who in turn would give a grin to all his patrons. Not a soul would dare interrupt a person at work on their laptop - after all, they were in London, a place teeming with keyboard-clackers and faceless suits.

The man who sat before you, though, was not face-less. He was clean-shaven, with immaculately parted hair and a tie so neat it looked as if it could cut someone if touched. Everything about him screamed _posh_ and _upper-class_ or perhaps _vaguely important politician_ and there you were, dressed as if you'd run out of the house at three in the morning upon hearing a Nana had been hospitalised.

"Ms. __________," he started, hooking an umbrella to the side of the table, inspecting every detail of your soul upon sitting down. "I thought I could find you here."

You raised a brow, and slowly, lowered the face of the laptop. "Are you lost, Mr. ...?"

He shook his head. "Mr. Holmes. And no, I am not. You met my younger brother a week or so ago, whilst working on the Finnegan Heroin case," he introduces, and extends a hand across the table to yours, to shake. "I'm here to consider your side of the events as a _favour_ to Sherlock."

"So, I take it that you're the cleverer one who pulls strings, aren't you?" You ask him, folding your hands under your chin to watch the elder Mr. Holmes as he took in your information. "I was a fan of Agatha Christie as a child, I can read people like your family seems to do," you smile, "However, not as well, evidently. So, what questions do you have for me?"

He quirks his head, and sliding a hand inside his coat pocket, withdraws a small piece of paper. The handwriting on it is pristine, the best cursive you've seen despite being a calligraphy admirer online. "Just ... if you ever noticed anything strange about Mr. Finnegan, that's all," he pushes the paper toward you, which now you can focus on the words, see what they read. "And why the greatest author in London alive was living in that apartment."

"Mr. Finnegan never struck me as odd, just a man who never took guests, and left every morning at ten for tea down in the park with his paper," you reply, pointedly ignoring the _other_ end of the question. "He was never rude or frightening ... but if you really want all I know about him, he'd often vacuum his floors very early, and sung too high for his vocal range in the shower."

He sits there. It's quiet between the two of you - the strange man who had just appeared with his umbrella and quizzical brow, and the author with nothing better to do than type her days away - until he coughs into his fist. "Er - thank you, Ms. ________."

You lean toward him, inspecting his green eyes, "I don't suppose you have a first name, do you, Mr. Holmes?" You hum, and go to open your laptop once more to start up the tool of your trade just once more.

Mr. Holmes seems flustered at the remark, a little rosy blush staining his cheeks. "Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mycroft," you grin, and disappear behind the screen of the laptop. _I have a feeling I will see you again eventually._

* * *

The best part about being a politician like he was, was that not a soul mentioned his names on the whimsy of a breath - he was a consultant, a political grab, a man who steered the world from disaster with a flick of his finger and a thwart of an enemy. There wasn't a mention of his name on the internet save for archives of school records from when he graduated from university. It was good - he could go places with his familiar scowl and invitation from a high up known entity in government, or browse the public library without a single person interrupting his session around the paperback world.

But if Mycroft Homes had the time for browsing carelessly in libraries, let alone deviating his attention from the current upcoming crisis (tensions brewing in Antarctica for more base stations, or something) to the little (h/c) haired writer who drank her coffee the same way he did was located beside the investigation he was dragged into by his brother. It wasn't that he was getting slower in his years and needed whole attention to task to focus, no. It was that there was just something about the writer who made him want to sit down and hear all about her mind, because it must be hard to have a world stuck inside your head, to have it all in there before publication.

He sat in his office, once more absorbed in the work splayed before him. There was a meeting coming up soon, and Anthea would grab him on the way to it as to not be late. Thus, it left Mycroft to be at will staring at the manila folders before him, sorting out the figures mentally.

It wasn't until the chair opposite his desk creaked that he realised that somebody had managed to slip into his office without being detected. But with a glance, he could not help but be confused - it was none other than Ms. ________ _________. She wore a sweater with little bees embroidered into the collar, and dark blue jeans, and her best smile.

"I don't suppose this is a good time," she frowned, leaning forward. "Your assistant got in contact with me, said there was a need for follow-up meeting from what we did the other week in the cafe," she supported.

Mycroft raised a brow. "I didn't tell her ... perhaps you received this address from someone else?" But the woman before him pulls out a yellow flip phone, and shows the number it came from. _Anthea's_. It suddenly occurs to him that the time of the text coincides with the last time he made a home visit to 221b Baker Street, and the occasion that Sherlock pick-pocked his assistant to snoop. "My brother did this."

"I assumed so. Your assistant said it was okay to bring this in," she grabs a disposable cup from the floor beside the chair leg, and passes it to him, "I saw you eyeing my cup last time we met, Mr. Holmes." _______ beams.

He accepts the coffee, grateful for the warmth, the aroma of the cup in his hands. "Thank you very much, Ms. ________."

She laughs. "Please. Call me ________. It makes me feel a little more normal."

Mycroft can't help but know what that feels just like. "In that case, don't call me Mr. Holmes for the same reason." He goes to ask the author before him something, but she gets there first.

"I live in that apartment complex beside the elderly drug lord because I can't really see myself being alone in a fantastically big place where my pay packet can afford." She can't hold eyesight with him at this moment, staring at her hands rather than him. "I come from a family of no money, no reputation and no need for frivolity. I was the first in my bloodline to be in university, you know, Mycroft - and because of it, I do all I can to be unchanged from what I grew from." She takes a deep breath, and adds, "I may just be a great author, but I'm still the girl who grew up with welfare."

Mycroft sits there, the cup in his hands growing cold. "_________ -,"

She nods. "It's not pretty. And it can't be read in the book, I did my best to remove that part of myself from it. That's why I need to hurry up and write the second one before that part of me leaves me."

Mycroft understands, but not in the way an empathetic person would, but as someone who has seen terrible things, and knows what they are like without dipping a toe in the blood of another brother's sadness. He scribbles something on a faded yellow post-it-note, and passes it toward the woman sitting before him, Ms. ________, the tragically beautiful __________ who likes her coffee the same way he does.

"I should think I could call you again sometime, for another of these chats," he offers, the paper being folded into her palm.

She nods, "I should think so too."


	3. • iii •

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But with all the greatness of each other's lives, there is one thing which status and fame cannot supply, and that is company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! I hope you've been enjoying the ride!

There was a downside, to being a famous author - there was never a moment when you were just the same old ______ who you'd grown up with. There was always the haunting, looming shadow of that novel, the one which sometimes you wished you'd never published because that was all they saw when anyone looked at you. It was like Eeyore's little grey rain cloud that followed him all over the Hundred Acre Wood; there was just it following you.

Come to think of it, other authors who had an insane uptake to their fame probably felt the same way. Although, few of them seemed as against it as you were. J. K. Rowling probably never wished for the days before, or Roald Dahl for that matter. But for you, there was never a moment when you were just honestly yourself for your own sake.

A damn human being.

It was a month later when the police came by for another sweep of the building when another hand followed that of the law - when the door beside your own was being searched within and out, yours had its own visitor; a man in a suit with a kind smile that looked through the misty glasses that sat upon the end of your nose.

"I don't suppose you take milk in your tea, do you?" you asked him, leading him into your home. It was the same as the one you lived beside of, with a small bedroom, and a modest bathroom and a little place to cook. His eyes swept it all, as you went to put the kettle on, and prepared the room as best you could to play host to Mycroft. "I think I forgot to grab biscuits last time I went to Tesco's..." you glance over your shoulder, to see him standing there, almost swaying in the doorway. "... is something wrong, Mycroft?"

He shook his head. "No, no, nothing's ... I am needed in Greenland. Politics, you know. I'm here to -,"

"Pleasantries," You nod, spitting the word out before he leaves it on his tongue a moment longer. "I understand. But you're still having tea, aren't you? It's a real drag drinking alone, and you know us, British, if you're having tea, then everyone's having tea ..." you busy yourself in the small kitchenette, throwing the clean dishes from the rack into the cupboard, stuffing a pair of knickers slung over the couch into a hamper. "I don't suppose you'll be around for long, then?"

Mycroft shook his head once more. "I leave in a day."

"I meant, for tea," you wrinkle your nose.

At that, the kettle _dingles_ the finished song, you busy yourself over the little mugs, a pair which don't match, and there's a chip on the handle of the grey one, with a tartan pattern, and the golden one is losing its sheen, the slogan printed badly onto the knock-off porcelain. But still, they're beautiful mugs, and you share the other cup with the man in your house, and sit with him on the second-hand saggy sofa.

You glance to him, and give a smile over the cup. "I take it you don't often extend yourself this far to people often," you place the mug on your knee. "I do the same thing."

He chuckles, but it isn't mirthful. "It's strange how people who come from different struggles often have the same story in the end," he frowns into his mug, taking a deep sip. For a minute, the pair of you sit in silence, the slow bumping and murmur through the walls from the police in the apartment beside you. Then, "I'm so very glad I found you, Ms. _________, it has been an honour knowing you."

You put your cup down. "It's ________. And it's been an honour being a friend to you, Mycroft."

* * *

There was a downside, to being a politician like Mycroft Holmes was - there was never a moment when he was the young boy before he took on the apprenticeship in local parliament, who studies for years to come to where he was. When he used to sit in the backyard in the countryside and just _breathe_ and notice life as it went past him and smile. He was a grown man who took a hold of the lives of the country, of all his end of Europe, and tried his best to keep the lives of millions of innocents safe from the madmen in the world.

It was a job which would never have him a moment left to breathe, and he was sure that most people in positions like his own would be caught in an internal battle of which falling in love with their jobs every day, and wishing it to end every night never to come back. Yes. There were battles in his mind, but there were greater battles out in the world where threats were very real and the strange men who thought themselves worthy opponents of his little brother needed to be dealt with accordingly.

But to be completely, and terribly honest, there was never a moment when Mycroft closed his eyes and saw himself back at his childhood home seeing the fields dusted with snow. No. There was never a moment when he was just honestly himself for his own sake. There were glimpses of these moments, which made it seem possible - but only when he was in the company of the one and only writer, the author who seemed to write his thoughts. The _________ __________, who had the country in rapture of her words upon the pages of her novel, and his heart, too.

It had taken months, nearly six of them to turn the council and the ear of Geneva to the correct way of thinking, and with that, Anthea and he were home-bound, due back through Heathrow any minute that the plane descended. There as a car waiting to take him to his estate, and Anthea to her family. After six months of twenty-four-hour work, he'd decided it was more than enough to give them both time off until the next crisis struck, that there should be some time to breathe and such. Perhaps he'd take up watercolours.

_Perhaps he'd find out what time had done with ________._

But as soon as the plane indeed touched down, and the car came and departed with both employer and assistant, there were other things on his mind, and when it came to the moment when Anthea was dropped off her at sister's home, Mycroft snapped out of the reverie, one which oddly sounded like the plot to _Love He_ simply told the driver to take him to his home. Not the cosy apartment downtown, and not to where the (h/c) haired woman lived.

It was not when he entered the house that he noticed, nor when he felt the warmth of his fireplace, or the smell of food cooking that he hadn't asked for, but when he glanced down at the door, and saw it. A pair of shoes, sneakers, little sand-shoes with rubber soles sitting on their side, funnily-patterned socks stuffed inside the high tops. His eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, but it hit him: he was not alone in the house.

And it was then he connected it all, and as he turned to see what was going on in his sitting area, the corridor held another story: the form of the woman who was in his mind for the last six months as he lived through days and nights toiling over the good of all people upon Europe, and the earth.

"Anthea, she called ahead and had the key left for me," the sound of her voice in his ears, truly being there before him is mesmerising, and all he can do is stand there, silent. "It's been torture, I missed having the bloke in the three piece to chat with," he takes a step toward her, shedding his coat upon the hanger, and the jacket. "But also, that I never really got a moment to tell him that I was stupid and common and didn't tell him when I had the chance."

Mycroft quirks a brow, and breathlessly, he ponders aloud, "Stupid, and common are not words I shall ever use to describe the wonder that you are, my dear," he reaches a hand, and cradles her face, feeling the warmth of the hearth afire beneath her skin. "But, pray tell, as I have waited six months to tell you something also."

She chuckles. "Didn't you know? I'm pretty sure that I'm in love with you."

"Oh, I knew," he lowers his face to yours, guiding you closer to his lips. "And perhaps, if it is possible, I feel the same way that you do too." At that, his hand has no control over her face, as her arms are around his neck, his lips encapsulated, heart rate rocketing as he realises that all it took for him was six months of hell in icy Greenland to realise that he wasn't so much of a machine as he thought, and that there was somebody that could, perhaps, like somebody like himself.

"Just kiss me back, and follow me to your lounge," she grinned.

And that, was the greatest news he'd heard in six months too.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
